


The Commander

by BlackjackKent



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Backstory, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Canon Related, Character Study, Earthborn Commander Shepard, F/M, Gen, Internal Monologue, Renegade Commander Shepard, Ruthless Commander Shepard, Walkthrough Fic, YouTube
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 10:08:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/660742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackjackKent/pseuds/BlackjackKent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Commander Shepard from behind her own eyes, start to finish.</p><p>This fic is an ongoing long-term project, a "walkthrough fic" covering all three games in the Mass Effect series from the perspective of a particular Earthborn/Ruthless renegon femShep character. The playthrough on which this fic is based will be uploaded as a video walkthrough on YouTube at <a href="http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLgtP21eLD_YjENh7OunRh6FN6dJtVYOEq&feature=view_all">this playlist</a>.</p><p>Any and all feedback is appreciated! :)</p><p>((DISCONTINUED -- but if you like my take on Shepard, feel free to check out <a href="http://cmdr-blackjack-shepard.tumblr.com">my RP blog</a>.))</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard, the second-in-command of the experimental vessel SSV Normandy, learns that the Normandy's shakedown run is a cover for a mission to recover a Prothean beacon from the peaceful farming world of Eden Prime, a mission on which she will be assessed for her suitability as the first human member of the Spectres, an elite Council order of military agents. Things start to go awry at once, however, when the crew learns that Eden Prime has fallen under attack by a terrifying and mysterious new enemy.
> 
> All credit (obviously) for context and dialogue goes to Bioware. I'm just a big fan with an urge to explore your characters. :)

_"What's your name, cadet?"_

_"Shepard."_

_"Age?"_

_"Eighteen."_

_An angry eighteen, angry more because I don't know how to be anything else than because I have anything in particular on my mind. The dark-skinned, dark-voiced first lieutenant taking my information seems bemused by my automatically defensive stance, by my jut-jawed stare daring him to make trouble for me. These are posturings of the underbelly of Chicago's deepest levels; I haven't yet learned that such behavior doesn't have any meaning aboard a Navy vessel. I haven't yet learned that I am safe, learned it deep in my bones where I can feel secure in it._

_The lieutenant looks me over for a moment in silence, and then offers a smile -- tight and not too familiar, but sort of...paternal, an expression I am unable to make head or tail of. "My name's Anderson," he says. "You've never been on a ship like this before, have you?"_

_Is it that obvious that I’m out of my depth? Now I'm also angry that he saw so easily through me, and I don't answer, just stick my jaw out further and fold my arms. The Alliance may have been my ticket offworld but I have no intention of being talked down to._

_The smile disappears immediately, and Anderson takes a step forward, his height towering over my slim frame with all the authoritative bluster of God. "I asked you a question, soldier!"_

_I'm startled into an approximation of attention, my arms snapping to my sides. "I-- no, sir, I haven't!"_

_And just like that, the storm is over. Anderson settles pleasantly back on his heels and nods. "You'll want to hold onto something when we hit the relay, then. They're quite a ride if you're not used to them."_

_He gives me an appraising look up and down, taking in my lanky body and ragged close-hewn black hair, the healing scar across my eyebrow and nose. Fresh off the streets and stuffed into a navy coverall, I look like more of a caricature of a marine than the real thing. Someone's kid sister playing at soldier. But somehow he seems to find something worthwhile in what he sees, because he reaches out and slaps my shoulder lightly, pointedly ignoring my flinch backwards from the unexpected contact._

_"Cadet, I want you to remember this," he says seriously. "The next time you're asked a question, you answer it. You answer it fast, and like you mean it. You will find one day that a quick answer, given confidently, may mean the difference between a life and a death." He pauses, then smiles again, though this time without much humor. "Those who follow your command will look to you for guidance. For certainty. Without it, you will never win their trust, and certainly not their loyalty. Do you understand?"_

_He meets my eyes squarely, and I look back at him, not knowing what he means._ My command? _I'm an Earthside alley cat; I'm not going to be deciding anyone’s fate. Hell, I'll be lucky if I make it through bootcamp. But he seems very serious about it, so I figure I'd better make an effort, and I answer back, nice and snappy. "Yes, sir!"_

_"That's better." He looks me up and down again."You'll be all right. I don't know your story, Shepard. I don't know where you came from, and it doesn't matter. You're in the Alliance Navy now. And I'm pretty sure you're going places...maybe whether you like it or not."_

_I don't know why but I can't stop thinking about his words as I muster for mess that evening. I'm still thinking about them all through evening PT. Who the hell was that L-T to give me advice? Why did he care? What did he see when he looked at me? What have I gotten myself into?_

_Where_ am _I going?_

_In the middle of the night I'm woken by the jump alert klaxon, the muted sound of the pilot counting down. And then I start yelling as the whole world turns inside out..._

* * *

 

Space twists, stretches, thunders like a thousand explosions and then hushes abruptly into the whine of strained hull plating. The SSV Normandy swoops away from the transit relay, the blue ionization streams of the mass effect field twining around her as she hurtles out through the starscape. 

I smile to myself, leaning one hand against the bulkhead and feeling the vibration of the engines through the polished metal. _A good run._

It's been years now since that first time I passed through a mass relay. That was back before the Normandy, before Torfan...before everything, really. I was little more than a terrified kid that the Navy and ICT hadn't yet molded and made a woman out of. 

Years ago. More years than I care to count. Enough years that I no longer yell at the strange, perception-warping snap of the transition into and out of FTL. I barely notice it anymore.

Indeed, the FTL jump is probably the least odd thing about today, all things considered, given our destination, our crew, and our passengers. The Normandy left the Citadel several days ago with a crew that can only be described as a mixed bag -- a combination of raw young blood and some of the most prestigious officers in the fleet. Not the team one usually expects on a run-of-the-mill shakedown of new tech.

Many of the names have been highly familiar. Charles Pressly is an accomplished navigator, and both he and our chief medic, Karin Chakwas, served in the thick of the fighting in the Skyllian Blitz. Greg Adams in the engine room has experience on more classes of ship than many marines have ever set foot on. And Jeff “Joker” Moreau, our pilot, is at only age 28 nothing short of a legend -- as he is happy to inform the unaware -- for the speed and maneuverability he’s been able to coax out of Alliance frigates, far more lumbering and stubborn than the experimental turian/human hybrid we’re all now assigned to.

The rest of the crew is at the other end of the spectrum, complete unknown quantities -- with the exception of the captain. Everyone knows David Anderson, and I've had more reason than most to watch his spectacularly successful career closely. We’ve never served together until now, though, not since he helped oversee my induction as a marine cadet.

I gather he must have kept at least half an eye on me since, though. I’ve heard on the grapevine that a handful of us were handpicked by him for this mission, and that I’m one of that handful, specially requested for his second in command.

Normally I wouldn’t consider an assignment to a shakedown run a particular honor (and that it's being treated as such is somewhat baffling), but coming from Captain Anderson, it means something anyway. And this is a damn fine ship to get to see under the hood, regardless of the mission. 

And if I’m to be honest with myself -- as I try to be, most of the time -- the decidedly mixed reputation I developed at Torfan makes it particularly satisfying to know that an officer I admire requested to serve alongside me. I got the job done on that mission, cost of lives notwithstanding, and made a permanent name for myself; most navy officers whom I’ve worked with directly seem to respect that. _I_ respect it. But when the nickname “Butcher” follows you around...well, it’s always good to be reminded of the other side of the coin.

At any rate, the oddly prestigious officers of this experimental vessel aren’t the thing that’s getting most of the gossip. I’ve heard the grumbling down among the noncom bunks, and it’s mostly about the turian Spectre who fell in with us when we launched. His name is Nihlus Kryik, and he has the raw appeal of a cold fish, more stolid self-assurance than charisma. Most of us have only seen him in passing; he’s been primarily closeted away with the Captain, which has left the crew wondering and rumor-mongering. I’m wondering too, of course, but I’ve made it my business to not let it keep me up nights.

Joker Moreau is holding court up in the cockpit, reeling off the post-jump checklist as I stride up the causeway from the CIC. He's got on what seems to be his default voice, a gravelly drawl that must be what earned him his nickname, but there’s a definite edge to his tone that is new, and it’s not hard to pick out the reason. Nihlus has taken over the center section of the bridge and has been watching over his shoulder ever since we began deceleration for the Exodus Cluster. I’ve never yet met a pilot who liked feeling scrutinized while making jumps, and Joker is clearly no different.

"Thrusters, check. Navigation, check,” he comments without looking up from his readouts. “Internal emissions sink engaged. All systems online. Drift...just under 1500K."

I give a low whistle as I draw even with the bridge archway.   _A very good run. Bang on the money._

Nihlus is evidently less impressed. "1500 is good,” he says coolly. "Your captain will be pleased." The Spectre's boots squeak on the decking as he turns, brushing past me and down into the causeway without another word.

There is silence in the cockpit for a moment, broken only by the slow, rhythmic beep of the system monitors. Then Joker slouches his head forward, lowering his voice in a petulant mutter. "I hate that guy."

Lt. Kaidan Alenko, in the seat to Joker's right, rolls his eyes. "Nihlus gave you a compliment, so you hate him."

Joker waves a hand disdainfully. "You remember to zip up your jumpsuit on the way out of the bathroom, that's _good_. I just jumped us halfway across the galaxy and hit a target the size of a pinhead, so that's _incredible_!" He slaps the recon sensor controls a little harder than necessary. “Besides, Spectres are trouble. I don't like having them on board. Call me paranoid."

"You're paranoid,” Kaidan answers patiently. In the time since this shakedown began, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him once get riled, even when juggling the wet-behind-the-ears recruits who form some of the core cadre of the Normandy’s assigned marine detail. It's the eternal burden of the soldiers unfortunate enough to draw the short but necessary straw of shipboard personnel management; Joker’s neuroses, by comparison, are small potatoes. 

“The Council helped fund this project,” Kaidan goes on. “They have a right to send someone to keep an eye on their investment."

Joker snorts. "Yeah, that is the official story. But only an idiot believes the official story."

I take the last few steps into the bridge, deliberately letting my boot heels click harder than normal on the decking. “That’s enough!” I interject crisply. “You’re soldiers. Act like it.” To be honest, I’m not sure I buy the explanation for Nihlus’s presence either -- but this isn’t the sort of conversation that should be happening in the main control room. Best to nip this in the bud right off.

Joker jumps as if I stabbed him with an electrode; clearly he’d thought the bridge was still empty of brass, but he grins anyway like an unrepentant kid with his hand in the cookie jar. Kaidan gives me a sideways look over his shoulder, his dark brown eyes sheepish. “Sorry, Commander.”

I shake my head. Kaidan isn't the one I'm worried about, except insofar as our pilot may be a bad influence on him. From what I’ve seen, I like Joker, but he has a habit of forgetting to filter the route between his brain and his tongue that can be sort of exhausting. I wonder occasionally how he made it through flight school without one of the instructors tossing him out an airlock.

Kaidan, on the other hand, is perhaps Joker's polar opposite. He's quiet, thoughtful, inhumanly patient, but respectful and direct when addressed with a situation that requires his input. Tall but slim, clean-cut and physically unassuming, he can nevertheless bring a roomful of cadets to attention with a look. And according to his dossier, he comes loaded for bear with some of the most powerful biotic abilities I’ve yet heard of in the Alliance Navy.

I've never met a marine quite like him.

The intraship comm squeaks abruptly for attention. “ _Joker! Status report._ ” Captain Anderson is in straight-to-business mode today it seems.

Joker, looking less than suitably abashed by his recent chastisement, leans forward in in his seat and checks his readouts.  “Just cleared the mass relay, Captain. Stealth systems engaged. Everything looks solid.”

“ _Good,”_ Anderson says briskly, his deep voice muffled by static. “ _Find a comm buoy and link us into the network. I want mission reports relayed back to Alliance brass before we reach Eden Prime._ ”

“Aye, aye, captain,” answers Joker. He reaches for the communications equipment, deftly flicking open a tracer program to lock onto the nearest Alliance satellite. From the casualness of the motion, you wouldn’t suspect he was sitting at the helm of the most advanced starship a human has ever had the occasion to pilot. Nodding with satisfaction at the resulting ping, he tips his head back against the headrest of his seat and adds sardonically, “Better brace yourself, sir. I think Nihlus is headed your way.”

“ _He’s already here, Lieutenant._ ”

A short, icy pause, broken only by the slap of the heel of my hand against my forehead. Kaidan winces, and I can see Joker shaking his head -- though whether in mute apology or just regret, I can’t tell. 

Anderson lets the awkward moment hang for a little while before continuing, “Tell Commander Shepard to meet me in the comm room for a debriefing.” The intracomm clicks off before any of us have time to respond.

Joker frowns and glances over his shoulder at me. “You get that, Commander?”

I did, and I’m already turning towards the door. “Great,” I quip at him, not a little irritated at his cocksure bad timing. “You pissed the captain off and now I’m going to pay for it.”

"Pfff," answers Joker dismissively. “Don’t blame me. The captain’s always in a bad mood.”

As I move back out onto the causeway, I can barely hear Kaidan’s muffled rejoinder. “Only when he’s talking to you, Joker.”

* * *

 

The CIC, no matter the hour, always hums with activity. First watch is just drawing to a close and there is the rapid movement of officers going on- and off-duty, the low beeps and hisses of consoles being manipulated. Near the main navigation controls, Pressly is on the comm with Adams down in engineering, having an argument -- about Nihlus, by the sound of it.

“I’m telling you, I just saw him,” says Pressly, leaning over the comm with an intent whisper that carries the few feet between us underneath the murmur of other conversations. “He marched by like he was on a mission.”

_“He’s a Spectre. They’re always on a mission.”_

“And we’re getting dragged right along with him.”

 _“Relax, Pressly...you’re going to give yourself an ulcer.”_ Adams sounds almost bored; I wonder how often Pressly has chewed his ear off on this subject.

I can’t really blame our navigator for being skeptical of Nihlus. Pressly’s grandfather was a major figure in the First Contact War, and anyone who had family in those battles of early human spacefaring tends to be less than fully comfortable with xeno-diplomacy, and with turians in particular. 

Of course, the militaristic race from Palaven does not always endear itself at the best of times, but to those even indirectly connected with events like Shanxi, there really is quite a mountain of prejudice to get over. Pressly, to his credit, has acquitted himself well in the early days of this mission, whatever it may be leading to.

I consider stepping aside to tell him to stop the gossip and keep his mind on the mission, but the fact is, he’s right. Personally, I couldn’t care less that Nihlus is a turian -- one of the benefits of childhood street life is not having anyone's baggage but your own -- but his presence on this shakedown as a Spectre agent raises a hell of a lot of questions. Spectres are elite agents of the Citadel Council, authorized to protect the interests of the Council races at any cost. They're not bureaucrats or diplomats, and they rarely if ever have anything to do with the human Alliance.

So what is he doing here? _Something_ more is going on than meets the eye. I just have no goddamned idea what it is.

“What do you think, Commander?”

The eager voice snaps me out of my thoughts and I find myself staring into the eyes of Rick Jenkins, who flashes a salute as I halt near him. The young corporal is looking at me expectantly; I realize belatedly that he thinks I’ve been listening in on the conversation he’s been having with Dr. Chakwas, which I have not caught one word of.

“We won’t be staying on Eden Prime too long, will we?” he goes on earnestly, his dark eyes shining with interest. “I’m itching for some real action.” 

This is every inch the Corporal Jenkins that all of us have already had occasion to get to know rather well. The poor kid is about twenty, well and truly starstruck by military life; he’s at my elbow constantly with questions and comments, and I’ve heard he follows Kaidan Alenko around like a puppy. It’s all so well-meant that it’s hard to dislike him for it, but he’s got a lot to learn.

Dr. Chakwas breaks in before I have a chance to answer, the tired voice of experienced reason repeating itself for the third or fourth time. “I sincerely hope you’re kidding, Corporal. Your ‘real action’ usually ends with me patching up crew members in the infirmary.”

Jenkins puffs with righteous indignation at the implication that he was anything less than serious. I quickly cut across him before he can ramp up a rebuttal. “Marines are meant to fight,” I tell Chakwas crisply. “You just fix us up when we’re done.”

She smiles faintly, unperturbed by my bluntness. “I know how things work, Commander. I’ve seen my share of combat, but it’s foolish to go looking for trouble. You could both take a lesson from the Captain,” she goes on pointedly. “He’s not afraid of combat, but he knows the value of restraint, too.”

It’s not an unreasonable point -- nor one I particularly disagree with. Contrary to some popular opinions, I don’t spend my time looking for opportunities to throw my teams into the fire. For a moment I’m concerned that may be what the doctor is implying, but if it is, she’s being admirably subtle about it. There’s no accusation in her tone. Indeed she almost sounds as if she’s lecturing a pair of students instead of her XO and an adrenaline-filled corporal.

Well, fair enough. She’s at least fifteen years older than I am; she lived through the Blitz, and I’m just taking my first shipboard command position. I’m not so egotistical that I don’t know how to accept good advice. I nod almost imperceptibly at her, and she settles comfortably back on her heels with a jerk of the head in return, as if satisfied with some experiment she has run.

Jenkins, meanwhile, doesn’t seem to have absorbed a word of the conversation so far; he’s practically bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. By his energy level, one would think he was expecting a mission to break out of the decking right in front of him at any minute. “Sorry, Doc,” he says cheerfully. “But this waiting’s killing me. I’ve never been on a mission like this. Not with a Spectre on board.”

Unsurprisingly, Jenkins seems to have missed the memo about all the red flags Nihlus's presence raises on this ship; to him, the Spectre is just that turian who once -- according to rumor -- took out an entire platoon of Batarians singlehandedly. And consequently, he is just this side shy of a god.

I make a mental note to restrict Jenkins’ access to anything jingoistic for a while. I’m all for the glory of the marines too; ICT spec-ops training beat that into me well enough. But it also taught me a marine who's too hopped up on being an invincible warrior is soon a dead warrior, and maybe a dead warrior with dead teammates. 

“Do your job, follow my orders, and there won’t be any problems,” I say sternly, frowning at him. Chakwas shifts her weight slightly, tracking Jenkins’ expression, which seems to become if anything more agitated.

“Easy for you to say,” he replies, pointing an accusatory finger at me. “You proved yourself on Torfan. Everyone knows what you can do. This is my big chance. I need to show the brass what I can do.”

 _You’re an idiot, Jenkins,_ I think wearily. _Torfan is nothing to imitate._ I expect nothing less than respect for what I did that day; any officer worth their salt should be willing, if it comes down to it, to sacrifice their team and themselves for the needs of the mission. But Jenkins’ admiration is troubling. No officer worth anything at all should find such contingency a preferable state of affairs.

So I am perhaps unnecessarily sharp as I snap back, “This mission isn’t about personal glory, Corporal. We have a job to do. Don’t do anything stupid to mess it up.”

Jenkins looks as if I’ve slapped him; he goes to full attention abruptly and his eyes go big and wide. Chakwas looks somewhat impressed and says nothing at all. It’s a testament to how strange this mission environment is that it occurs to none of us, in that moment, that nothing has yet happened for Jenkins to botch -- and that by the official reports, nothing will, either.

After a short, tense pause that probably feels like an eternity to the corporal, he finally answers intently, “Don’t worry, ma’am. I’m not going to screw this up.”

I scrutinize him for a moment in silence, then nod. He visibly relaxes and hooks his arms behind his back, but I can tell he’s suddenly squirming to be anywhere else but talking to me. Unfortunately for him, I still have questions for him. “You’re from Eden Prime, aren’t you, Jenkins? What’s it like?” Best to get as much information as I can before moving into my debriefing.

“It’s very peaceful, Commander,” he says, shifting his weight to one side and then the other, squinting as he looks past me into his memory.“They’ve been real careful with development, so you don’t have any city noise or pollution. My parents lived on the outskirts of the colony.” 

He smiles suddenly, a real happy smile like I haven’t seen from him before. It lights his whole face, and I’m reminded suddenly how painfully young he is. “At night, I used to climb this big hill and stare across the fields back at the lights from the main settlement. It was gorgeous. But when I got older, I realized it was a little too calm and quiet for me. That’s why I joined the Alliance. Even paradise gets boring after a while.”

For a moment I find myself trying to imagine growing up in such a place. No sound of constant trains and shuttles and building maintenance. No gangs, no turf battles and sleepless nights with a switchblade. No fear. Visible sky and hills to climb, and plenty of food. And boredom. I don’t think I learned how to be properly bored until I was almost Jenkins’ age and serving my first tour of duty out of bootcamp.

Paradise indeed. But not to my taste. 

“Any idea why Eden Prime was chosen as our destination?” I ask him.

He shrugs, shaking his head. “Not really sure, Commander. Eden Prime’s one of our most stable colonies. Good place to take the Normandy for her shakedown run I guess. No real danger there.” He pauses, and then his eyes light up again. “But there’s got to be something else going on. We’ve got a Spectre on board! That’s why I’m so wound up. I can’t wait for the real mission to start.” 

I leave him to Chakwas to sort out.

* * *

 

At first I think the comm room is empty as the door slides open for me, but in fact I'm not alone. Nihlus is already here, his back to me in the dim light, eyeing some of the readouts on our comm buoy connection with an appraising eye. Though my tread is light on the decking, he doesn't miss it, and turns with a sharp jerk in my direction.

I haven’t really had much of a chance to get a good close look at the man in the time he’s been aboard, but he looks much like every turian I’ve had occasion to meet thus far in my life -- tall, thin, and all made of sharp edges. Their faces are hawkish, simultaneously bird and reptile; they have the obvious biology of a predator. Even without the First Contact War, it’s no wonder humans are still only slowly warming up to them.

“Commander Shepard," he says, in that weird, undertoned tenor that all turians seem to have. His stance is casual but attentive, like someone expecting something important to happen any minute -- a permanent mark, I can only assume, of a life spent working in and out of the shadows. "I hoped you’d get here first.  It will give us the chance to talk.”

I halt on the other side of the circular room and raise an eyebrow at him. “What about?”

“I’m interested in this world we’re going to. Eden Prime." He tilts his head forward slightly in the great curve of his head guard. "I’ve heard it’s quite beautiful.”

I think of how Jenkins described it. _Paradise_. I'll believe it when I see it; in my experience, "paradise" is a name people give to places where they don't have to face their problems -- and as such, I'm not really much interested. I wonder why Nihlus is asking; is he concerned that we think this is a sightseeing tour? “I’m a marine," I retort sharply. "Not some tourist on vacation.”

The mandibles on the outside of his jaw work thoughtfully. I feel like a lab creature under a microscope; his beady eyes are boring into me, calculating some question I'm not privy to. “It’s more than just a tourist destination, isn’t it, Shepard?" he asks, after a moment's silence. "Eden Prime is a symbol of your people, a perfect little world on the edges of your territory. Proof that humanity can not only establish colonies across the galaxy but also protect them. But how safe is it really?”

Before I’ve even had time to fully parse the words as a potential threat, my fingers have twitched up behind my back to rest against the assault rifle mounted at my shoulder. _This whole business has me more wound up than I thought._ Nihlus's expression is inscrutable; his rough-patterned face, striped with the white tattoos of his home colony, is like a mask. If he _is_ trying to provoke me, he’s letting me do all the work. 

“Are you trying to scare me, Spectre?” I growl at him -- a change in tone which seems to affect him not at all.

“Your people are still newcomers, Shepard," he continues implacably, as if I hadn't spoken. "The galaxy can be a very dangerous place. Is the Alliance truly ready for this?”

My eyes narrow in irritation but I'm saved from having to answer by another set of human footsteps entering the room.

“I think it’s about time we told the Commander what’s really going on.” Captain Anderson crosses behind me, coming to a halt next to Nihlus. His expression is stern; I wonder if he's been up boxing Joker's ears in the cockpit.

Nihlus nods agreeably at the interruption and draws himself up to his full height, winding himself up for an announcement of great import. “This mission is far more than a simple shakedown run.”

 _Well, thank you, Captain Anticlimax._ “I already figured that out," I say dryly. _Me and half the ship. Tell me what we're actually doing and that'll be news worth talking about._

As if in answer, Anderson picks up the thread smoothly from Nihlus, gesturing at the astrophysical map of our target system hanging on one of the nearby readouts. “We’re making a covert pickup on Eden Prime," he says seriously. "That’s why we needed the stealth systems operational.”

I'm relaxing a little now that there seems to be some hard information coming my way, although it's troubling that I have not heard even the slightest rumor of this objective since my orders came through. “I don’t like being kept in the dark, Captain.”

Anderson seems understanding but lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “This comes down from the top, Commander. Information strictly on a need-to-know basis."

I nod grudgingly. I'm still irritated that I wasn't considered 'need-to-know,' but that's not Anderson's fault, nor a conversation I want to have in front of Nihlus. The Spectre is watching both of us, silently absorbing every nuance of the discussion.

"A research team on Eden Prime unearthed some kind of beacon during an excavation," the Captain goes on. "It was Prothean.”

He says it so matter-of-factly in comparison to Nihlus's sense of the dramatic reveal that I have to do a double-take. The Protheans vanished 50,000 years ago, but the technology they left behind them is critical to all of galactic society. Any new discoveries involving them have the potential to be life-altering.

“This is big, Shepard,” Anderson continues, unconsciously echoing my thoughts. “The last time humanity made a discovery like this, it jumped our technology forward two hundred years. But Eden Prime doesn’t have the facilities to handle something like this. We need to bring the beacon back to the Citadel for further study.”

“Obviously this goes beyond mere human interests, Commander,” Nihlus comments. “This discovery could affect every species in Council space.” 

Something about his tone strikes me as patronizing. The Council -- the joint governing body of the turian, asari, and salarian races -- always seems to be about working together when it can benefit them; getting the Alliance a hand in _their_ affairs is always a lot harder. I glance at Anderson with a frown. “Why didn’t we keep the beacon for ourselves?” I ask, deciding not to care whether Nihlus finds this an offensive question.

As a matter of fact, however, the turian has an answer before Anderson does. I suspect he’s expected this question and prepared for it. “You humans don’t have the best reputation,” he says, raising a clawed hand to forestall any protestations I might care to make. “Some species see you as selfish. Too unpredictable. Too independent. Even dangerous.”

My hackles are definitely up at this description, but the careful use of the words _some species_ doesn’t slip by me, so I say nothing for the moment. Anyway, Anderson’s expression has gotten a little stony since I asked the question. 

“Sharing that beacon will improve relations with the Council,” the captain says with an air of finality brooking no further argument. “Plus, we need their scientific expertise. They know more about the Protheans than we do.” He waits for me to acknowledge his point, which I do, frowning and folding my arms across my chest. _Fine._  

At least this explains why this shakedown run’s crew reads like a Who’s Who of the Alliance fleet. Anything involving a potential Prothean data cache needs trustworthy people with their eyes open and moving quickly, and all the more so since Eden Prime is plopped right on the border between human space and the Terminus Systems. There's all sorts of unsavory characters over the border who just might decide it's worth risking open war to get first crack at a Prothean tech database -- or weapons archive.

“The beacon’s not the only reason I’m here, Shepard.” Nihlus’s comment falls heavily into the tense silence. He and the captain share a look, and then both turn to me; again I feel that odd sensation of being scrutinized like some foreign object.

“Nihlus wants to see you in action, Commander,” Anderson says gravely. “He’s here to evaluate you.”

 _Evaluate me?_ The words sting like a slap. I’m an Alliance officer; I don’t need some turian’s approval of my abilities. “Since when do we answer to the Spectres?” I ask with a scowl.

Anderson shakes his head, and a sharp light comes into his eyes abruptly. “You’re smart enough to know how things work, Commander,” he says. “The Alliance has been pushing for this for a long time. Humanity wants a larger role in shaping interstellar policy. We want more say with the Citadel Council.” 

He looks to Nihlus, then back at me. The lines in his face deepen with great seriousness. “The Spectres represent the Council’s power and authority. If they accept a human into their ranks, it shows how far the Alliance has come.”

It is only years of honed self-control that prevent my jaw from dropping open as I realize what he is saying. _After years of political rhetoric, a human Spectre is in the cards. And out of the whole race, every solitary soul that holds a gun in the whole Alliance...that human is me. That’s why I’m here._

“I was impressed when I studied the reports from Torfan,” Nihlus comments; his tone is more conversational than I’ve ever heard it before. He’s speaking one soldier to another now, not as a Spectre, but I’m feeling so dumbfounded by the bomb Anderson just dropped that I barely notice the transition. “A grim business, but you got the job done. That’s why I put your name forward as a candidate for the Spectres.”

Torfan is the last thing I want to talk about right now; for a moment I just stare at him. Both men are looking at me expectantly, waiting presumably for my flattered response, but it doesn’t come. I don’t know what to say.

Every officer in the Alliance navy has joked at one time or another that they’d make a good Spectre. Citadel-issue weaponry, unlimited carte-blanche authority...it sounds like a good gig. The sort of thing to dream about at night when you’re a little in your cups and feeling hopeful about your career. But in the morning it’s always just a pipe dream. And I’ve always been all right with that. I’m Alliance. I’m an N7-ranked marine. I’ve never asked for anything else.

“Why would a turian want a human in the Spectres?” I ask slowly, grasping for the nearest part of this announcement that I can get my head around. My voice feels strained in my throat.

Nihlus shrugs casually; whether he is politely ignoring my attempts to process this news or simply doesn’t notice, I can’t tell. “Not all turians resent humanity. Some of us see the potential in your species. We see what you have to offer to the rest of the galaxy, and to the Spectres.” He leans forward towards me, a gesture that could be in equal measure one of respect or intimidation. “We are an elite group. It’s rare to find an individual with the skills we seek. I don’t care that you’re human, Shepard. I only care that you can do the job.”

 _Of course I can, if I set my head to it. But no one thought to ask_ me _how I felt about this._ “I don’t like people making decisions about my future,” I begin testily, but Anderson cuts me off before I can get any further.

“This isn’t about you, Shepard. _Humanity_ needs this. We’re counting on you.”

I recognize that tone, though it’s been years since I heard it. _Answer quickly, and like you mean it._ And in that moment I realize I have no choice. Anderson’s right. If we’re to get anywhere, someone has to be first. Someone has to put their ass across the line, as confidently as if they knew it was meant for them -- for their whole species -- all along. I won’t waste my breath thanking anyone for the honor, but if they give it to me, I guess I’ll damn well take it.

My nod is almost imperceptible, but it’s enough for Nihlus and Anderson. The tension palpably eases in the room, though my heart rate has edged a good jump above normal. No matter what this assignment aboard the Nomandy ends up entailing...everything is about to change.

“I need to see your skills for myself, Commander,” Nihlus says, back to all business. “Eden Prime will be the first of several missions together.”

“You’ll be in charge of the ground team,” says Anderson. “Secure the beacon and get it onto the ship ASAP. Nihlus will accompany you to observe the mission.”

“Just give the word, Captain,” I answer firmly, feeling better as we turn towards the specifics of the task at hand. Mentally, I set aside all thought of the Spectres. It's time to do what I’m paid and trained for. Everything else can wait.

“We should be getting close to Eden--” begins Anderson, but he is cut off by the sudden, sharp buzz of the intracomm.

_“Captain, we’ve got a problem!”_

It’s Joker. The unexpected interruption sets all of us on edge immediately. On a vessel like the Normandy, you don’t pop out of nowhere with a message like that unless you’ve got a damn good reason. 

Anderson, otherwise stock-still like a statue in the attitude in which he’d been cut off, tilts his head slightly towards the ceiling. “What’s wrong, Joker?”

_“Transmission from Eden Prime, sir. You’d better see this.”_

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle abruptly. Joker’s tone says volumes; something has rattled him badly. I look to Nihlus and see that his posture has changed subtly. One hand is resting on his gun and his weight has shifted forward, a balanced, hairtrigger posture.

“Bring it up on screen,” Anderson commands quietly. The three of us with one motion turn towards the large communications projector mounted on the far wall. 

It takes less than a second for all of us to realize something is terribly wrong.

The display flares to life at once with a roar of noise and light. The sound of gunfire -- quick snaps of energy, familiar like an old enemy -- is immediately apparent, along with an incessant distant roar; the visuals at first are more indistinct, a grainy mass of dim early morning air overlaid on the indistinct backdrop of grass and trees, saturated with dust and debris and quick flashes of fired ammunition and occasionally erupting with the impact of heavy artillery shells. The view is unsteady; whoever is transmitting this has their camera hand-held by the straps and is swerving in all directions within the battle raging around them. 

An armor-clad figure heaves into view, firing as she goes, barreling over the short distance separating her from the camera operator and tackling him to the ground. _“Get down!”_ The view lurches; the camera comes unmoored from its owner and crashes into the dirt. For a moment I am able to take a close look at the armored woman as the camera frames her from below. _Human. Definitely marines._ I recognize the armor make, the gun that she’s carrying. Her face, briefly visible under her helmet, is wide-eyed and hard. She jerks to the side as an energy bolt the size of a shuttle plows into the ground beside her.

_This can’t be coming from Eden Prime. Can it?_

Then the camera is moving again, sharp jerks from face to face, revealing a group of five or six marines, all firing, all armored. They’ve got looks on their faces that I recognize all too well. These are soldiers who see death staring them in the face. And we still haven’t seen what they’re firing at.

 _“We are under attack!”_ calls one of them, a lieutenant in his early 30’s whose voice is high with panic and the strain needed to shout over the tremendous noise around him. “ _Taking heavy casualties. I repeat, heavy casualties! We can’t--”_ There is a violent explosion and the screen flares with light; the view jerks and the lieutenant almost falls over as the ground bucks underneath him. _“--ed evac!”_ he goes on when the sound has died enough to hear him, desperation clear in every syllable. _“They came out of nowhere. We need--”_

His whole body spasms; someone has grabbed him from behind. The camera scuttles backwards from him, its shot widening again to the man’s compatriots, all of whom are staring past it with expressions of crushing dread as the ground continues to explode around them. The roar in the background begins to grow in strength, a mechanical whine so low-frequency that I can feel it vibrating in my teeth.

The camera angles around, following the path of the soldiers eyes upwards into the sky, and fixes on a giant...

 _What the hell is that?_  

If it’s a ship I’ve never seen anything like it before. It’s like some sort of bizarre, kilometers-long insect, all legs and shell. Its skin is a metallic grey-red lit blue by the ineffectual rounds of ammunition being fired below and the setting moon hanging low in the lightening sky. Slowly, unrelentingly, it descends...the roar grows unbearable and the picture tilts, then dissolves into hissing static. 

The silence in the comm room is absolute. I look sideways at Anderson, whose expression is immobile. Stunned. Nihlus is impassive as ever, but his mandibles are working back and forth in silent agitation.

 _“Everything cuts out after that,”_ says Joker flatly. _“No comm traffic at all. Just goes dead. There’s...nothing.”_

“Reverse and hold at 38.5,” Anderson says. His eyes haven’t left the projector since it went dead, and he watches as it flares up again, the video replaying backwards rapidly and freezing on the image of that strange spider-like ship, framed in glowing red lightning.

We all look at it for a moment. Years later, I will remember this image as clearly as I see it now; it etches itself into my brain here before I even know what it is. Something about it stirs a primal sort of dread, a disgust. I don’t tend to draw easy lines between good and evil, but if I did, I know which side of the line I would put this thing on. And I know that it did not come to Eden Prime with any intention but one -- destruction.

 _No, two intentions,_ I realize suddenly, the pit of my stomach tightening as I put the pieces together. _It came for the beacon._

“Status report!” snaps Anderson into the intracomm, and for once, Joker responds without a trace of humor or idleness.

_“Seventeen minutes out, Captain. No other Alliance ships in the area.”_

The mark of a good officer, regardless of attitude, is the ability to answer the question they haven’t yet been asked. Joker’s just given us the information that was on all our minds. Whatever has just happened, it’s up to us and us alone to stop it.

“Take us in, Joker. Fast and quiet,” Anderson says grimly. “This mission just got a lot more complicated.”

“A small strike team can move quickly without drawing attention,” Nihlus suggests crisply. “It’s our best chance to secure the beacon.”

He’s right, of course, though it’s galling to have the turian making our strategic decisions. If Anderson feels any irritation about it, though, he doesn’t show it, just turns slightly towards Nihlus in acknowledgement. “Grab your gear and meet us in the cargo hold.” The Spectre leaves without a word.

Anderson then looks at me, and I can see the confusion in his eyes, and the determination. I feel my own resolve strengthen, looking at him. No wonder he has all those medals. “Tell Alenko and Jenkins to suit up, Commander. You’re going in,” he says.

Time to go to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo -- first real chapter done! (Now that I'm doing this chronologically, at least. I'll leave up the "teaser" chapter of Morinth in ME2 but obviously we won't be getting there for real for a while.) The YouTube link for this section will be coming shortly.
> 
> This opening bit is a lot of dialogue and exposition; when we hit Eden Prime look for a lot more action! :)
> 
> Feedback is always welcome!


	2. Eden Prime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leading the expedition to retrieve the Prothean beacon found on Eden Prime, Shepard and her team discover a powerful and deadly new enemy waiting for them.

For me, Eden Prime is a study in irony right from the start. It is named for a paradise and is, in fact, a hell.  
  
The sun is low on the horizon, a deep blood-red color bathing the ground in stripes of long crimson shadow. The summer air, jungle humid, is hot and heavy and full of drifting debris kicked up by the Normandy's retreat from the drop point, which looks out over cliff face down onto a flat plain broken by the tall spires of the colony transmitters. There’s no immediate signs of activity, human or otherwise, but the atmosphere is split by the sound of gunfire, rapid and sharp and cold, and the landscape below undulates with the broken desolation of an aerial bombardment site.  
  
 _Someone was doing some serious digging here,_ Joker pointed out on the way down. He wasn’t kidding.  
  
"Smells like smoke and death," Kaidan murmurs at my side. I nod in silent agreement. There's a brimstone quality to the odor of the place; we're not in sight of the main colony yet, but we don't have to see it to tell that devastation waits for us there. Everything stinks of flame and ash.  
  
Jenkins, at my other side, is staring at the shattered valley of his homeworld with an attempt at a brave face which isn't fooling anyone. When he catches me watching him, he opens his mouth and gropes for a tactical appraisal. All that comes out is a whispered, "Oh, God. What happened here?"  
  
I have no answers for him, except the obvious fact that this mission -- supposed to be an easy run -- has evidently become a matter of life and death for hundreds of people. But he knows that already. And we have a job to do, and as long as the noise of that gunfire continues, every passing second is a moment wasted.  
  
I give him a few seconds to collect himself, while Kaidan and I circle the small clearing in which we've landed. He falls into step soon after, uncharacteristically quiet. I keep an eye on him sidelong as we make a beeline up a nearby path in the rockface. He looks rattled as hell.  
  
I spare a moment to wonder if Anderson may have made a mistake in allowing the poor kid along on this mission. A soldier without his head in the game is a dangerous thing, and it will only get worse when we reach the colony proper, when he sees his home decimated and bleeding. Then again, knowing him, none of us would have heard the end of it if he _hadn’t_ come along. So I’ve got no choice. I’ve just got to make the best of it and hope he has the sense to keep focused.  
  
The route to the colony is a meandering business, rocky and treelined. Amid the red glow and sulfuric smell, it is hard to imagine the place ever seeming bucolic. The sky, stretching wide open above us and swirling with clouds and smoke, feels heavy and oppressive, and within a few minutes I’ve got my assault rifle out of its clip on my back, its weight in my hands a silent reassurance against the irrepressible sense of being watched.  
  
We move mostly in silence. Kaidan only speaks once, to ask about the local wildlife -- ugly pink bulbous things floating from tree to tree amid the undergrowth, the first sign of movement we’ve seen since our landing. Jenkins calls them  “gas bags.”  
  
He assures us they’re harmless and non-sentient, so I try shooting one; it combusts in a violent burst of light and smell. Kaidan snaps out a startled oath at the unexpected gunfire and explosion. “Negative contacts, Commander,” he quips dryly as the smell of the punctured creature slowly drifts off and mixes with the smoke.  
  
I give him a sideways look; through his helmet visor, I can see he’s managed a faint smile. I don’t return it; this isn’t a time for jokes. It’s not, strictly speaking, a time for shooting passing animals, either -- but that was not for entertainment. I don’t want to have my ass backed against a wall and suddenly find the pink bastards are a tactical threat.  
  
We move quickly, quietly, the grass muffling our footsteps. Nihlus has been sent on to scout out ahead, and while I would have preferred to have him somewhere where I can keep an eye on him, I’m finding myself grateful knowing there’s an extra pair of eyes that’ll be getting to the colony before we will. The noise of gunfire is starting to diminish, so either we’ve missed the party or there’s an ambush planned.

* * *

It is with this thought in mind that I signal a halt as we approach an open curve in the cliffside path. It’s a good lookout point, giving us a wide, sweeping view of the colony towers, some of which are still gamely firing down on unseen enemy targets below. There’s no immediate sign of activity in our path, though that doesn't mean much; the angle of the hill means everything beyond the nearest twenty meters or so is effectively obscured by ragged sandstone outcrops.  
  
 _By the book,_ I remind myself firmly. _Get some surveillance eyes in a safe place on the ridge._ I raise one hand and gesture for Jenkins to take point in cover a little further up.  
  
For a moment, I'm not sure he's caught the order. Then he moves, but simply by the jerky arc of his gun arm, I can tell his mind is on the fire from the towers and not the job at hand. As Kaidan and I watch, he moves forward and then suddenly it is too late -- he's swung wide of good cover and out into the open center of the path.  
  
As if this was some sort of predetermined signal, a volley of blue light explodes out of the rocky hills, striking home on the young private with deadly accuracy. Jenkins flails backwards under the impacts and goes down with a strangled cry.  
  
 _Shit._ I lean sideways, hewing closely to the available cover, and squint, searching for the attackers. There’s three of them --  hovering automated turrets of a make I don't immediately recognize -- and I spot the first one just as it is engulfed by flame; Kaidan has found it first. Between the two of us, we manage to quickly dispatch its cohorts, and a silence descends over our corner of the world.  
  
Jenkins' body, contorted at a painful angle on the grassy slope, lies still with eyes open, staring at the rapidly fading stars. There’s no question that he’s dead. _Hell and damn,_ I think bleakly, angling myself out of cover and cautiously moving up the uneven slope towards him. _Dammit, Rick...why didn't you look where you were going?_  
  
Kaidan’s at my side almost at once. His armor ripples with the blue bleedoff of his cooling biotic amp as he leans down to close the young man’s eyes. “Ripped right through his shields. Never had a chance,” he says quietly.  
  
I watch, saying nothing, just letting the harsh angle of Jenkins' neck and the frozen pain in his face etch itself permanently into my memory, alongside all the others.  
  
 _The cry of despair...last words, as it had turned out."Oh, God, Shep, would you have them slaughter us all?"_  
  
 _And the cool reply, the only possible reply."If it's what the mission takes, Private!"_  
  
This, though...the mission hasn't demanded this. This is just a poor dumb kid with a flair for dramatics and a mind too easily distracted. This is not sacrifice. This is waste.  
  
Kaidan is looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to say something, to make this all right. I have nothing to say, and it is certainly not all right, and there is no time to try to make better sense of it. We need to move. “Leave him,” I say -- too sharply, really, a jabbing blow of a sentence designed to knock both of us out of our thoughts and into action. “We need to finish the mission.”  
  
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” he answers, and in that moment, I am utterly grateful for his obedient calm. I may be imagining it, but he almost looks relieved that we are not stopping now to grieve. Or maybe he is simply glad that he did not have to be the one to instruct us to leave Jenkins’ body splayed in the grass. Neither of us wants to abandon him, but the fact of the matter is, he’s dead. He’s not going anywhere. In my experience, the dead tend to stay that way.

* * *

If our climb to the colony from the drop point was foreboding before, it’s now become downright sinister. Without my having to ask, Kaidan swings out wide on my flank, and we cover each other’s backs as best we can, fighting off several more waves of the hovering turrets which emerge like lightning strikes out of the forest around us.  
  
I try my best to identify their source, but they don’t look like any make of Terminus pirate’s weaponry I’ve ever come across. They’re sophisticated and swift, and I get the impression that they’re self-destructing at the last minute rather than give us anything concrete to examine.  
  
 _What the hell is going on here?_  
  
What sign of human life we can find is grim. Nihlus radios back to us that he has already reached the colony. _“A lot of bodies...”_ I wish I could say I was surprised.  
  
We clear another grove of trees and rock and emerge into open sunlight in a dipping trough of the hillside path. At first I think the way is deserted, and gesture for Kaidan to come up on my left side towards the next obvious recon lookout -- but I stop the motion halfway with a sudden jerk as the sound of pounding footsteps sounds through the thick air. _Human footsteps._  
  
A marine gunnery chief wearing Phoenix armor and kit comes barreling alone over the next rise running like her life depends on it -- which it does. Two more of those turrets are after her, their arsenal shredding the dirt in long streaking tracks. A bolt of energy from one of then catches her in the back and she staggers, almost losing her footing.  
  
Instead she uses the momentum to make a dive forward and spins on her hip, using the few seconds’ advantage in the change in position to send two well-placed pistol bullets into each of the enemy guns. They explode in twin bursts of light.  
  
It’s an interesting introduction to the first human we’ve managed to run into down here so far, and it puts me on my guard at once. Kaidan and I begin to creep slowly down the incline towards the newcomer, but she doesn’t seem to notice our arrival. She’s still staring up the hill the way she came.  
  
My eyes track past her, following her gaze. Immediately I stop, putting out a sharp hand to Kaidan’s arm to halt him in his tracks as well.  
  
The three of us aren’t alone. There’s two other humanoid shapes up the hill, but they’re definitely not human -- or anything else I recognize for that matter. Their bipedal bodies glisten with a metallic sheen in the red light, and in place of skin they have a fabricated network of faux muscles and sinew, a mock-organic structure that simply gives up at the neck joint, where their bodies curve into a strange cylindrical head without any obvious face beyond a central glowing eye.  
  
My neck prickles with sudden animal instinct. _Enemy. These are the enemy._  
  
The thought is sealed by the realization that the two synthetics are carrying a human in a colony coverall between them. His body is sagging, dead weight, injured or drugged by the look of it. Together, with synchronized precision, they hoist him onto a strange tripodal pedestal, and I can just barely see his face as he turns, eyes open, to stare at his captors--  
  
And then, faster than I can blink, the pedestal unfolds into a ten-meter spike which impales the man through the chest and lifts him bodily into the air, so quickly that he does not even have time to cry out. Blood drips down the metal pole under his body as he spasms. My stomach turns at the grisly sight and, at my side, Kaidan sucks in a breath of air like he's been kicked in the gut.  
  
The two machines, seemingly satisfied with their kill, step away from the pole, and in so doing, spot the moving form of the marine on the ground. With a panic that is obvious even from a distance, she struggles to her feet and runs, lurching towards the nearest rock that she can get behind.  
  
 _OK. Time to move -- now._ I don’t pretend to know what just happened, but any question of whether these are hostiles is pretty much answered definitively, and the first person with possible answers that we've seen all day is about to get taken apart.  
  
I strike the flat of my hand against Kaidan’s arm and he’s off, moving to one side as I circle to the other, each of us seizing what cover we can find on either side of the beleaguered gunnery chief. Reaching up with one hand, I get a bead on the closer of the two synthetics and manage to get in a clean shot or two before it even knows I’m there; it’s not an easy kill but it keeps him occupied while Kaidan and the gunny finish off its partner. The thud of its body hitting the dirt is satisfying but not exactly reassuring. I can feel a heavy knot starting to form in between my shoulder blades.  
  
The gunnery chief clambers out from behind her rock and approaches me. “Thanks for the help, Commander. I didn’t think I was going to make it.” She looks frazzled and her armor is dinged and dirty; her eyes sit dark in a face pale with exhaustion under its tan. I realize on closer inspection that she is one of the marines from the vidcomm message we had back on the Normandy -- the one who’d slapped the cameraman to the ground and out of the line of fire.  
  
“Gunnery Chief Ashley Williams of the 212. You the one in charge here, ma’am?” she asks crisply.  
  
I guess I am, in the absence of any other signs of intelligent life that isn’t trying to kill us. The thought is not a highly encouraging one. _By the book, Shepard. Focus._ “I need a status report, _now,_ ” I snap.  
  
Williams looks around quickly, trying to get her bearings as she begins to shed the adrenaline of the battle. “Oh, man. We were patrolling the perimeter when the attack hit,” she says, taking a few steps to the side, an abortive nervous-energy pace which she covers by gesturing in the direction of the colony center. “We tried to get off a distress call, but they cut off our communications. I’ve been fighting for my life ever since.”  
  
The condition of her armor bears witness to this description, but I don’t waste time on sympathy. “Where’s the rest of your squad?”  
  
The arm joints of her armor flex as she clenches her fists. “We tried to double back to the beacon, but we walked into an ambush. I don’t think any of the others...” She trails off into silence, then adds almost inaudibly, “I think I’m the only one left.”  
  
Years later, I will remember my response, how it came fast and sharp and like a reprimand and surprised me with its forcefulness. Maybe I’m still stinging from Jenkins’ pointless death a few minutes earlier; maybe I have no patience for anyone not willing to see a battle through to it conclusion. Maybe I’m clinging to whatever protocol I can think of in this uncertain situation. Maybe -- as a salarian doctor will posit to me long after the fact -- I see myself as I was after Torfan in this disheveled young woman, alive when she by all rights should have gone down with those she was responsible for, and it’s not an image I have yet learned to fully respect.  
  
Salarian doctors say a lot of things though. Personally, I think I’m just tired as all hell, angry at how this mission’s gone down, and looking for a target.  
  
“You just left the rest of your unit behind to die?” I snap at her. To my side, I can see Kaiden’s jaw tighten in a frown.  
  
Williams visibly flushes under her visor at the unexpected reprimand. “We held our position as long as we could,” she answers defensively. “The geth overwhelmed us.”  
  
I’m saved from having to regret the harshness of my tone by this new bit of revelatory information. _Geth._ Of course. The name is more of a fairy tale than anything else but I’ve of course heard of them -- AI synthetics created by the quarians, successfully enough that they eventually rebelled against their creators and drove the quarian race into nomadic exile. If I had to pick off the top of my head a synthetic intelligence capable of taking down a whole colony, the geth would be it. But that was centuries ago...  
  
Kaidan seems to be thinking along the same lines. “The geth haven’t been seen outside the Veil in nearly 200 years,” he says doubtfully. “Why are they here now?”  
  
It’s a valid question. Eden Prime isn’t even anywhere near the Perseus Veil, where the geth have been rumored to be lurking for so long. That’s clear on the other side of the map, out on the far rim.  
  
“They must have come for the beacon,” answers Williams. “The dig site is close, just over that rise. It might still be there.” She makes the suggestion smartly, without hesitation, and with just the tiniest hint of smugness; I can tell by the tone that she’s pissed at my questioning her actions when she’s the one who knows this place inside out.  
  
Well, let her be pissed. I don’t have time to coddle her. “Lieutenant Alenko and I will take care of this.”  
  
 _That_ gets her dander up. “Let me come with you, ma’am,” she says sharply. “The geth slaughtered my unit. Give me a chance to get even!”  
  
 _If you’d wanted to get even, you’d still be fighting them instead of advancing to the rear and over the nearest hill_ , I think irritably, but Kaidan speaks first -- and takes the kid’s side. “She knows the area, Commander. And we could use the extra firepower.”  
  
Unfortunately, it’s not a point I can easily argue with. Regardless of Williams’ involvement -- or not -- in the battles of the morning, the fact that our enemy at hand evidently overran whole platoons makes this a whole new ballgame. I scowl and adjust my gun restlessly. “Just don’t forget who’s in charge.”  
  
She doesn’t like that much, but to her credit, she keeps it to herself and just says evenly, “Understood, Commander. You give the orders and I’ll follow ‘em.”  
  
I’ll have to take that for what it’s worth. I question her briefly about the situation but she doesn’t seem to know much more than we do -- she and her team were hit more or less out of nowhere and have been cut off from the researcher camp around the beacon dig site. About the beacon itself, she knows still less, which is disappointing. I’m really starting to want answers about what information this thing could possibly hold that would be so valuable.  
  
Oh, well. Nothing to be done about it now. “Move out!”

* * *

The beacon site is a no-go. Not only is it crawling with geth, all of whom seem to have no compunction regarding shooting first and asking questions later, but the Prothean technology has been removed. All that’s left is a stone circle in the ground and a temple-like structure surrounding it, embedded into the side of a hill.  
  
Williams is crestfallen by the blow to her credibility as Eden Prime Expert but gamely suggests we check out the science team's camp instead. All three of us are hoping intently that the beacon is still in colonial hands in some way, shape, or form, but the tremendous ratio of geth to humans that we've seen so far is making it seem less likely by the minute. But hell, does us no good to give up now. I direct Williams to take point up the slope and fall in behind her.  
  
 _“Change of plans, Shepard,"_ radios Nihlus -- the first we've heard from him in some time. _"There’s a small spaceport up ahead. I want to check it out. I’ll wait for you there.”_  
  
I perk up distinctly at this. A spaceport is often the center of colonial life, and a likely place of retreat. If there are survivors, they (and therefore their information) are likely to be found there. I'm a little sour that Nihlus will be finding them first.  
  
Such petty concerns are wiped from my mind, however, as we crest the ridge and come into view of the scientists’ camp. It’s been decimated. Most of the prefab buildings are on fire and there’s rubble everywhere; someone’s been tossing explosive rounds or grenades. Three more of the heavy, bloodsoaked spikes, still bearing the bodies of their victims, stand like sentinels at the entrance to the plateau.  
  
“It’s a good place for an ambush,” Kaidan mutters. “Keep your guard up.”  
  
I duck behind a large piece of shattered wall to get the lay of things. For a moment, there doesn’t seem to be any sign of movement, human or otherwise -- until the spikes start moving. They retract slowly into themselves with a dull hum, and Kaidan’s horrified voice splits the air. “Oh, god! They’re still alive”  
  
And he’s right. The human bodies impaled on the spikes are still moving, quite energetically in fact, enough to climb right up off the spikes as if nothing happened. My eyes widen as I take in their appearance. They look nothing like humans, and more like the geth that impaled them -- their skin has gone a deep, dead grey and is interlaced with glowing blue, like a network of circuitry woven into their flesh. Their eyes are luminous white balls. The bodies are moving but the faces are dead and staring -- shells, husks of whatever colonists they started out as.  
  
“What did the geth do to them?” Williams asks, aghast. Any answer I might have is drowned out as one of the husk creatures lets out a scream that would have made the devil piss himself, and rockets towards us.  
  
There’s no time to debate with ourselves how to handle these creatures and whether they have any shred of the colonists left in them. We open up on them with all the ammo we’ve got.  
  
It’s a short fight, and none of us stops firing until all three husks are thoroughly pulverized on the ground. It takes every shred of self-control I have not to put a few more rounds into them for good measure, as I am starting to feel distinctly jittery about this whole business, which has not gone right once from beginning to end.  
  
We take what we can find of use that’s left in the camp, which isn’t much. I’m halfway to the path on the far side of the clearing before Williams notices that one of the buildings is still standing, and locked. I gesture for both her and Kaidan to keep their guns up, not knowing what might be waiting for us, and take an omnitool to the lock, breaking through the encryption with relative ease.  
  
To my surprise, there are two humans inside. Real, honest-to-god unmolested humans -- and civilians at that. Both are wearing Alliance standard frontier exploratory casual kit, so I assume at a glance that they must be from the science team. They also both look scared witless. One of them, the woman, is together enough that she dodges to the side away from the barrel of my rifle as I swing it in to sweep the room, but the man with her is staring at the floor and muttering and for a moment I’m not positive he’s even noticed my arrival.  
  
“Humans! Thank the Maker,” cries the woman, relief obvious in her expression as she recognizes our un-geth-like appearance. Something about her face rings a bell and I realize I recognize her. Her name's Warren; she's one of the chief human experts in the galaxy on the Protheans, and a regular consultant for the Alliance navy. Pity she's not an officer, as we can use all the hands on deck that we can muster right now, but at least she's likely to have information.  
  
Her assistant, at the sound of her voice, goes from zero to sixty agitation level in a heartbeat and begins squirming several steps towards me, his eyes still fixed on the floor. “Hurry! Close the door before they come back,” he says in a fevered hiss.  
  
 _Not the most promising start._ “How did you end up in this shed?” I ask Warren briskly.  
  
“We hid here during the attack,” she says, wringing her hands. “They must have come for the beacon. Luckily, it wasn’t here. It was moved to the spaceport earlier this morning.”  
  
My eyebrows go up at that. Maybe the beacon's still safe, then, if the colonists have managed to get it to a secure location. I'd all but given up on it for lost already.  
  
Warren gestures to her companion, who is mumbling something to himself under his breath. "Manuel and I stayed behind to pack up the camp," she goes on. "When the attack came, the marines held them off long enough for us to hide. They gave their lives to save us.”  
  
 _Well, almost all of them did_ , I think, casting a sidelong look at Williams. The young woman shifts uncomfortably.  
  
However, she's saved from having to say anything by Manuel, who has decided he'll have a part in the conversation come hell or high water. “No one is saved," he rasps in a harsh stage whisper. His eyes bug out in his head as he looks between the four of us. "The age of humanity is ended. Soon, only ruins and corpses will remain.”  
  
Warren doesn't seem surprised by this. In fact her expression can best be described as resigned; I quickly get the impression that this is about normal behavior for Manuel -- at least right now. _Trauma, maybe? It's been a hell of a day..._ “What else can you tell me about the attack?” I ask, deciding it's best to just ignore him for the time being.  
  
She shakes her head. “It all happened so fast. One second we were gathering up our equipment. The next we were hiding in the shed while the geth swarmed over the camp--”  
  
“Agents of the destroyer," Manuel puts in helpfully. "Bringers of darkness. Heralds of our extinction.”  
  
“--we could hear the battle outside," Warren continues doggedly over him. "Gunfire. Screams. I thought it would never end." She pauses and squeezes her hands together tightly, looking down. "Then, everything went quiet. We just sat there, too afraid to move. Until you came along.”  
  
I manage a certain amount of sympathy for her. She's a lot more coherent than a lot of civilians would be after what she's been through all morning, even if she doesn't have a lot of concrete information. Indeed, a lot of her discomfort seems to stem more from Manuel's ranting than it does from the now-past immediate threat of death. I don't envy her having spent the last few hours in here locked up with him. “Did you notice a turian in the area?” I ask, deciding to change the subject a bit and take the pressure off.  
  
Manuel, of course, has other plans. “I saw him," he says shrilly, his head snapping up. "The prophet. Leader of the enemy. He was here, before the attack.”  
  
Warren frowns -- and so do I, as this doesn't make any sense. “That’s impossible," Kaidan says quietly at my elbow. "Nihlus was with us on the Normandy before the attack. He couldn’t have been here.”  
  
“I’m sorry," Warren says, glancing uncomfortably at her associate. "Manuel’s still a bit...unsettled. We haven’t seen your turian. We’ve been hiding in here since the attack.”  
  
 _Oh, well. Worth a shot_. “Can you tell me anything about the beacon?”  
  
She looks a little more energized at this question. “It’s some type of data module from a galaxy-wide communications network. Remarkably well-preserved. It could be the greatest scientific discovery of our lifetime!" She manages a slight smile as she looks at me and I can see the shadow of real enthusiasm, the sort that she must have had yesterday when death wasn't staring her in the face. "Miraculous new technologies. Groundbreaking medical advances. Who knows what secrets are locked inside?”  
  
“We have unearthed the heart of evil," Manuel cries out frenziedly before I can respond. "Awakened the beast. Unleashed the darkness.”  
  
Warren's smile disappears like smoke in the wind and she flinches instinctively away from the man. “Manuel! Please! This isn’t the time.”  
  
This is getting a little out of hand, and Warren's discomfort is obvious enough that I'm not sure I feel safe leaving the two of them together. “What’s wrong with your assistant?”  
  
Warren looks at him wearily. “Manuel has a brilliant mind but he’s always been a bit...unstable," she says, more delicately than the situation warrants at this point. "Genius and madness are two sides of the same coin.”  
  
Manuel shakes his head several times, his eyes fixing down into the darkest shadow in the far corner of the room behind me. “Is it madness to see the future?" he says frantically. "To see the destruction rushing towards us? To understand there is no escape? No hope? No, I am not mad. I’m the only sane one left.”  
  
He's starting to work on all of us.  I'm not afraid of a crazy man but I know what they're capable of, and I'd very much like to know what the hell he thinks he's talking about. Kaidan is shifting his weight guardedly and Williams actually has her pistol in a clandestine ready position. Warren just looks exhausted, and shrugs helplessly. “I gave him an extra dose of his meds after the attack.”  
  
 _All right, something needs to be done about this._ We sure as hell can't take them with us, but clearly I can't leave them alone either. Warren’s at the end of her rope and Manuel is getting more unpredictable by the minute. “Say goodnight, Manuel," I say softly, taking a step forward.  
  
He panics, backing up a step and giving voice to a full scream. “You cannot silence the truth! My voice must be heard--”  
  
No marine reaches N7 without having a solid right hook, and mine is no exception. I pride myself, in fact, on the technique. There's no wasted movement, just a short, sharp, carefully aimed _whack_  and he's down, his eyes closed before he even hits the floor.  
  
I retreat back with a satisfied grunt, shaking the sting of the impact from my knuckles. Warren backpedals in the other direction, her expression horrified as Manuel collapses in front of her. “Oh my God!" she yelps. "What did you do?”  
  
“That might have been a little extreme, Commander," Kaidan says pointedly, though a quick glance shows he's trying very hard not to smile; he understands my reasoning. Williams has relaxed and her gun has dropped to point at the floor, though she looks a little baffled.  
  
“You can’t just go around whacking people in the head!” Warren says, appalled. I can tell I've given her a fright, but it had to be done. Short of shooting him, there was no other way to ensure Manuel would keep himself together. I wasn’t sloppy and it was a clean hit; he’ll be fine. He’ll have a hell of a headache when he wakes up but nothing worse than that.  
  
“It was only a matter of time before he did something crazy. And dangerous,” I say firmly. _Not to mention he had you more on edge than you think. I just did you -- and all of us -- a hell of a favor._  
  
Warren isn't oblivious to the fact either, and she nods resignedly. “I suppose you’re right. By the time he wakes up, the meds will have kicked in.”  
  
It's not much of a thank you, but I'll have to take it. There's no more time to waste and I'm as confident as I'm going to be that the two scientists will be all right until more reinforcements show up. Time to go see what Nihlus has dug up.  
  
“Williams, take us to the spaceport.”

* * *

We're six steps from the crest of the hill and an open view of the spaceport when everything starts to happen at once.  
  
First of all, there's a tremendous bang in the distance, like a shotgun or heavily amped pistol. It echoes in the quiet like a bomb and I start trying to track the source -- until I notice the second thing, an immense, gently sloping hull emerging from the ground and stretching up to disappear into the smoke-swirled sky.  
  
“What is that, off in the distance?” Kaidan cries, and a sudden roar almost drowns him out. The behemoth has started to _move_ ; like some great creature lumbering up from sleep, it rises out of the ground straight upwards. Struts expand as it goes, uncurling from its body like so many insect legs...  
  
“It’s a ship! Look at the size of it!” shouts Williams. And I realize it's not just a ship but _the_ ship, the one we saw in the comm sent back on the Normandy, which seems a damn lifetime ago.  
  
Then the third thing happens -- a few geth thermal charges _whit_ past my ear and I duck sideways and stop thinking about much of anything else for a bit.  
  
The synthetics put up a better fight this time. It's their turn to have the element of surprise, and they use it well, hammering away at us for several minutes before we manage to blast away the majority of them.  
  
Not only that, but there's more of those husks around; the geth seem to be using them as distraction and cannon fodder, and they pack a hell of a punch when they get close enough. At first I try to focus on the geth and avoid taking out more of the colonists than I have to, but it quickly becomes obvious that the colonists (or what's left of them) have no intention of extending us the same courtesy.  
  
My head is ringing from several punches as well as the usual shield kickback by the time we manage to put them all down. Kaidan is glowing blue with biotic energy and looks wary and angry. Williams is breathing hard. None of us speak. The giant ship is gone, but we've just had a dramatic demonstration that the threat has not necessarily gone with it.  
  
The ensuing silence after the firing stops is dramatic enough that I realize there are voices coming from a nearby storage shed. More humans have survived -- two men and a woman this time, all clad in civilian gear.  
  
Their leader, Cole, explains first that they are farmers and know nothing about the beacon; they ran to hide in the storage shed when the giant ship came down and have been under cover ever since. He doesn’t seem real thrilled about trusting us but also doesn’t really have many other options.  
  
“What else can you tell me about the ship you saw?” I ask him.  
  
He shrugs hurriedly. “I was too busy running to get a clear look at it. I think it landed over near the spaceport.”  
  
“Tell them about the noise, Cole,” pipes up his female companion, shuddering. “That awful noise...”  
  
“It was emitting some kind of signal as it descended,” Cole says tiredly. “Sounded like the shriek of the damned. Only it was coming from inside your own head.”  
  
I remember the teeth-resonant roar from the comm message on the Normandy and nod slowly. It had been bad enough at a distance like that; up close, I’m amazed they still have any hearing left.  “It was probably trying to block communications.”  
  
Cole doesn’t care, and shows it. “Whatever it was, it felt like it was tearing right through my skull. Almost made it impossible to think.”  
  
That’s all the information they seem to have, and I’m just on the point of leaving when the other man speaks up in a hushed but urgent tone. “Hey, Cole. We’re just a bunch of farmers. These guys are soldiers. Maybe we should give them the stuff.”  
  
I don’t know what _the stuff_ is, but all of a sudden all three of us in armor are listening very carefully indeed. Cole scowls at his partner. “Geez, Blake. You gotta learn when to shut up!”  
  
“If there’s something you’re not telling me...” I narrow my eyes at Cole intently. _God save me from civvies trying to be clever in a crisis..._  
  
He shifts awkwardly, not meeting my eyes. “Some guys at the spaceport were running a small smuggling ring. Nothing major. In exchange for a cut of the profits, we let them store packages in our sheds.”  
  
A whole lot of things fall into place about this conversation. “You greedy bastard!” I snap. “You weren’t running for your life! You were running to check on your merchandise.”  
  
I can’t help but enjoy the sight of Cole cowering back under my gaze. “No! It’s not like that. I just...I just knew there were some packages here, something we could use.” He squirms; I can see the wheels turning in his head. “I found a pistol. Figured it would come in handy if those things came back. But you’ll probably get more use out of it than we will.”  
  
He proffers a Stinger pistol at me. It takes everything I have not to laugh at how valuable a find he thinks this is. He's trying to buy off my interest, and he's not doing a very good job of it.  
  
This is of course not to say I can't be bought off, but I demand a quality attempt -- not to mention we all have a vested interest in determining how deep this smuggling ring might have gone. I fix Cole with the best glare I can muster, lean in a little closer, and casually rest my hand on the butt of my rifle. My finger's nowhere near the trigger, but it's clear from the awkward way he's holding the Stinger that he has no way of knowing that.  
  
“I’m only going to ask this once. Think long and hard before you lie to me again," I drawl at him. "Are you sure all you’ve got is one lousy pistol?”  
  
Kaidan, bless him, has picked up on my intentions and stepped forward too, and Cole blanches under our double stare. “Uh...oh, wait. I just remembered," he stammers. "I just had it in my pocket. Might as well take that too." He fumbles at the rear of his pants and withdraws a low-bar upgrade kit -- probably came with the Stinger, judging by the low power rating.  
  
"That’s everything, really,” he says earnestly, and I believe him. These kids are too dumb to run a real good con. They're neck deep in someone else's but they're not personally holding anything out on us.  
  
Williams, of course, misses the point entirely, and has been working herself quietly up into a self-righteous lather at the farmers' misconduct during this whole conversation.  “Who’s your contact at the spaceport, Cole?" she snaps abruptly. "What’s his name?”  
  
Cole had clearly thought the interview was over too, and he looks at Williams with surprise and dismay. “He’s not a bad guy. I don’t want to get him into trouble. Besides, I’m not a snitch!”  
  
Williams frowns. She's not going to take that for an answer. _Oh, for crying out loud...I don't have time for you to get into a half-assed pissing contest,_ I think sourly. Time to end this fast.  
  
I raise the pistol Cole just gave me and point it squarely at his nose. “Would you rather be a snitch or a corpse?”  
  
Cole goes visibly pale. “Powell! His name’s Powell," he stammers, raising both hands defensively.  
  
Williams tsks with disgust. “No honor among thieves.”  
  
I turn on my heel and walk away, ignoring Cole's further attempts to placate us. The conversation has gotten us nowhere and given time for more geth to get into position further ahead in the spaceport proper. Indeed I can already see the glint of dark metal lurking in the shadows at the far end of the platform.   _Damn everything_.  
  
I turn towards Kaidan, intending to tell him to circle out wide to hit the flank while I draw the enemy contact out into the open. But he's not watching me. His eyes are fixed on the nearer part of the port and he has a stunned expression on which immediately makes me very worried.  
  
It's an accurate reaction, as it turns out. I follow the path of his gaze up the steps of the platform, and immediately everything about this day gets a hell of a lot worse. There's a turian body lying stretched on the metal floor, blue blood spreading slowly from the back of his head.  
  
It's Nihlus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, more action! Part of what's I find interesting about this project (and about Mass Effect in general) is that there are various interpretations available for all of the characters depending on the choices you make. In the early stages of ME1 for instance, Renegade dialogue choices necessitate Shepard and Ashley butting heads from early on...I debated a lot with how to rationalize this and eventually decided to play it to the hilt for all it's worth. Given how I intend to interpret Virmire later on, it actually makes for an interesting character arc for both of them. Stay tuned. ;-)


	3. The Beacon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard and company fight their way to the center of the Eden Prime colony and the Prothean beacon they've been searching for.

For a moment I entertain the hope that the turian is just injured, but it's useless. Even if he weren't dead now, the amount of blood pooling under my boots shows quite clearly he'd have been gone long before we could get him to Chakwas or pump him with medigel. We're too late. The Council is down a Spectre.

 _Damn it. This is the last thing we needed._ We're short on personnel and long on enemies, and we’re already a hair’s breadth away from a lost beacon and a failed mission. And I didn't much _like_ Nihlus, but he knew his business. He seemed capable, effective. He saw something worthwhile in me, worthwhile enough for the Spectres.

He sure as hell didn't deserve this. 

I roll his body over gently with the toe of my boot, enough to reveal the blue-stained hole in his flesh. He was shot at the base of the skull -- and at very close range, judging by the amount of his neck that is missing and spattered artistically around us. A strange way for the geth to penetrate his defenses, even in a surprise attack. _Why did he shut his shields off?_

“Something’s moving!" Williams shouts. "Over behind those crates!”

A dead teammate's body does something to your instincts. Even without a conscious mental articulation of increased threat, I am moving at once and like a cornered animal; pivoting hard, I bring the barrel of my gun up with a snap into the face of a terrified-looking human in a tech coverall. _Human_ , not geth, I realize almost too late -- two dark eyes peering from behind gunfire-scored shipping containers. My whole body seizes with a spasm of conflicting reflexes and my finger twitches against the trigger, but I do not fire.

“Wait! Don’t-- don’t shoot!” the man cries, putting his hands up as if that could somehow protect him from our combined force. “I’m one of you! I’m human.” He’s about thirty or so, with a scraggly beard and shifty gaze. There’s no sign of a weapon on him. _Another civilian._

I give him an appraising look up and down as we lower our guns. To be honest, between Manuel and Cole, I've had about all the civilians I can stand, and with Nihlus's body lying behind us, I could have really used a pleasant surprise like another capable hand in the fight. But so far no Eden Prime native has seemed capable of delivering that.

 _Not even Jenkins_ , I think. It's an uncharitable thought and I'm not proud of it, and the unfortunate man in front of me gets to feel the brunt of my frustration. “I like the way you hid behind those crates during the fight," I snap sarcastically. "Really helped us out. Thanks a lot.”

He blanches, looking petrified at the very thought. “Me? But...but I’m just a dockworker. I don’t even have a weapon!"

This is not strictly true, as it turns out, though it takes a little effort to get the full story out of him. The man's name is Powell -- the same Powell that Cole mentioned, part of the smuggling ring. He's evidently been cowering down here since the attack started, curled up with a decently large collection of military-grade grenades which he's been slowly siphoning off the shipments to the local marine detachment over the past few months.

Williams, unsurprisingly, almost has a fit about this -- and, frankly, for once I don't blame her. But I'm not nearly as interested in the grenades as in what he has to say about Nihlus.

“There were two turians here," he hisses, rapid ingratiating speech powered by pure terror of the guns in our hands. "Your friend and another one he called Saren. I think they knew each other." He gestures behind us, his hands describing the motion of two tall figures. "Your friend seemed to relax. He let his guard down...and Saren killed him." His expression twists in disgust; sweat stands out on his forehead and for a moment I wonder if he's going to be sick. "Shot him right in the back. I’m just lucky he didn’t see me behind the crates.”

 _Saren?_ The name doesn't ring a bell -- not that I know that many turians. Kaidan and Williams look similarly baffled. But it's an awful elaborate story for this yokel to make up, especially when it would have been just as easy to blame the dead Spectre on the geth -- or to plead ignorance of the whole business. 

Too bad, because the implication of its being the truth is disturbing. It means the geth are not our only enemy; there’s someone else out for blood, and he’s already gotten the drop on one of us.

_"I saw him," Manuel had said, when asked about a turian on Eden Prime. "The prophet. Leader of the enemy..."_

“We were told a Prothean beacon was brought to the spaceport," I say sharply, the need for haste renewing itself urgently. "What happened to it?”

Powell shrugs, apathetic at best towards this seemingly unimportant detail. “It’s over on the other platform. Probably where that guy Saren was headed. He hopped on the cargo train right after he killed your friend." He leans forward on the crate in front of him, shifting his weight from foot to foot, as if trying to shake free of the memories of what this day has brought him. "I knew that beacon was trouble. Everything’s gone to hell since we found it. First that damn mothership showed up. Then the attack. They killed everyone. Everyone!" he shouts, despairing. "If I hadn’t been behind the crates I’d be dead, too!”

It's too bad he's been stealing military equipment, or he might get more sympathy from us. As it is, we take his grenades and leave him standing in the smoke-swirled air, alone.

* * *

 

Geth resistance is growing heavier, which unfortunately is probably a good sign; they’re more likely to be clustered around the thing both of us want, assuming it’s still on the planet at all. The tram system is crawling with them, hiding behind crates, popping up from railings, their metallic forms -- an eerie mix of robot, animal, and man -- catching the rising red sunlight and glinting like fire.

They are, quite literally, killing machines, and it takes everything we have to cut through the swaths of them that bear down on us. Kaidan and Williams, to their credit, do not speak a word of complaint, but I can see their exhaustion; we’ve now traveled a couple of miles from our initial drop point, and Williams has probably been going since midnight. The rising heat of full day isn’t helping either; in spite of my armor’s environmental systems, I can feel sweat starting to pool ticklishly at the small of my back.

The final push comes with a tingling burst of adrenaline, as we realize that the end of the tram line is peppered with heavy explosives. No less than four bombs have been placed at critical points along the secondary landing platform. I don’t know whether the geth mean to deter us from following, destroy the beacon, or eliminate evidence of their presence -- whichever it is, it’s a problem.

Unfortunately, I'm the one of the team with the omnitool and the best tech sense, which in this case is definitely the short end of the stick. Kaidan and Williams take cover positions while I sprint from detonator to detonator, muttering a vast panoply of invective under my breath as I short out circuit after circuit, dredging up N7-level training that I have not thought about in years -- the dangerous fragility of an explosive, needing only the right touch in the wrong place to set it off and turn me into a human firework.  Every few seconds, I can feel the heat of a geth thermal charge or rocket whistling past me -- or sometimes _into_ me, with the sharp staticky jolt of a shield impact that makes my ears ring. 

It is with only seconds to spare that I manage to shut down the final detonator; the sound of it fizzling down into silence is one of the sweetest I've heard in some time. Kaidan and Williams have taken apart a good number of the geth while waiting for me; we're all starting to get a better feel for their combat style and are finding that in reality it's not much to speak of, more strength-in-numbers swarming than actual strategy.

This is not, of course, to say that they are easy enemies; our fatigue is starting to outweigh our relative battle prowess, and it quickly becomes apparent that this is some sort of of last stand on the part of the synthetic creatures. They're throwing everything they have at us from a fortified position on the lower platform, chipping away at our shields, armor, and energy as they pour, seemingly inexhaustibly, from cracks and crevices in the metal structure around us. I've never fought anything which approached battle so inexorably. My shoulders ache with gun recoil and shield feedback, and sweat streams off my forehead in the jungle humidity.

And then it's over. The last geth body falls, clanging on the decking, and everything is silent.

For a moment, none of us can believe it. We circle the platform slowly, the sound of our heavy breathing harsh through our suit comms, but nothing emerges to meet us. We’ve driven them back. And more importantly...

We’ve found the beacon.

Admittedly, I don’t know for sure what the thing looks like, but if this isn’t it, I can’t imagine what else it could be. It’s sitting in the middle of the lower platform, an obsidian pillar standing some twelve or eighteen feet high and glowing green with internal power. As we start to move closer to it, I can almost hear a hum in the air, low and resonant and so quiet as to be almost inaudible.

My neck prickles with the instinctive alienness of it. _We are treading on dangerous ground._ I can't shake the feeling, though I'd be hard-pressed to say why.

Turning away sharply, I touch my helmet, triggering an exterior commline. “Normandy, the beacon is secure. Request immediate evac.” I’m ready to get out of here as quickly as I damn well can; we still haven’t seen anything of Powell’s second turian, and there are a lot of unanswered questions here. Not only that, but behind me, Kaidan and Williams are talking in low voices, and the latter has just pointed out that, while she's seen the beacon inert before, the whole glowing thing is a new development. I don’t know what that means, but it seems to argue for haste.

“ _Commander! Did you see that?!_ ” Joker’s excited yelp almost bursts my eardrum. “ _The thing was_ huge _! It just left orbit. Do you have any idea if--_ ”

“ _The commander will have a full debrief for us when she has returned to the ship, Lieutenant._ ”

“ _Uh...right. Aye, Captain. Commander, we’ve got your coordinates on our sensors; we’ll be down for pickup before you can blink. Normandy out.”_

“Roger, Normandy. Standing by,” I say, fighting the sudden urge to smile in my relief. Joker’s going to be a hoot to fly with, one way or another -- assuming he doesn’t get his ass court-martialed. I can’t wait to get off this damn planet.

 _Whump._  

The burst of energy comes out of nowhere and almost knocks me over backwards; it’s as if I have been struck in the face with green light. Shaking my head sharply to clear it, I look around and realize that whatever the beacon was doing before, it's doing it tenfold now. Kaidan, standing in front of it, has triggered some sort of reaction -- the thing has hummed up like an angry hornet  and grabbed him an invisible fist, yanking him almost off his feet. He’s bent almost double in an effort to escape it, but he’s losing the fight.

A sudden surge of anger goes through me at this unexpected development, at everything this planet has put us through since sunrise. _Damn it, this planet doesn’t need another death. We give what the mission demands, but this mission is_ over _!_

Williams is staring, dumbfounded, at the unfolding scene. I knock her sharply out of the way and dive forward, catching Kaidan around the waist and pulling with all my might against the power of the alien artifact. He snaps backwards as if released from a rubber band and crashes to the ground with a thud, and I am allowed one moment of relief before it is replaced by the primal fear of the animal in the trap -- the beacon has caught me instead.

It's amazing, the power of it, as if it is seeping through my armor, through my skin and into my flesh, dragging me forward and into its control. I struggle violently, my whole body spasming against the grip that is suddenly tightening around me like a vise, but it is no use. I’m lifted bodily into the air, I open my mouth to yell and--

_Whump._

* * *

 

_This time the shock seems to come from inside me, a volcanic eruption of red light inside my brain. Then shapes against the light -- terrible shapes, monstrous, inhuman, looming out of the darkness and disappearing back into it in a harsh, stuttering procession wreathed in flame. Image follows upon image, too alien to comprehend, too rapid to even process._

_And the noise..._

_It's not a hum now but a scream, an animal roar, incomprehensible, brutal, full of rage and pain and grief and helplessness. I want to close my eyes, to shut it out, but it’s inside me and I can’t escape it, can’t turn away or shield myself, and it grows inside me and sets off agony in every nerve as it overloads me, takes me over--_

The release is as sudden as the possession. The beacon detonates in a spurt of flame and shrapnel, hurling my limp body away in a projectile arc as if fired from a gun. Dimly I hear Kaidan shout. Then I hit the ground with a sickening crunch that rings through my head; there's a burst of white pain behind my eyes and then everything goes black.

_In the darkness, I remember arms around me, the murmur of voices. But they are drowned out by the scream. The scream and the grief and the shapes of the destroyers follow me into the night._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to start releasing this in smaller chunks -- both in order to update more often and to make it less of an ordeal to read. :) With this chapter we start getting into the real drama and meat of the plot; hope you enjoy!


	4. The Ardat-Yakshi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In order to gain Samara's loyalty against the Collectors, Shepard must help her stop an Ardat-Yakshi, a rare type of asari who kills her lovers by overloading their nervous systems and who just happens to be, in this case, Samara's daughter.

Samara watches the flickering holojournal as the last entry plays. For my own part, I'm listening to the words but keeping more of an eye on the armored asari at my side than the recording of the dead girl. 

I've already drawn my conclusions about Nef from the first two entries -- the greasy, messy hair falling across her forehead, the voice-cracking enthusiasm and energy. The total lack of inhibition and fear. Omega trash, like she describes herself. I knew too many people like her -- like me -- back in the home streets. Trash is very much the same everywhere, and most of us were just as young, just as vibrant, and ended up just as dead. It's sad, I guess, if I want to take the time to think about it very hard, which I don't. There's nothing I can do about it and it strikes too close to home; her mother can grieve for her but I have other business. Nef is an answered question. 

So I push her to the side and focus on Samara, who has always been enough unanswered questions to make up four Nefs, and who is listening to the slow revelations of the audio diary with a cool, hard look as if she is an assassin made out of blue porcelain rather than flesh. I can see the fury in her black eyes though and it makes a smile twitch somewhere in me. _Impersonal Justicar, my ass._

The audio finally clicks off and I fold my arms, waiting for my companion to speak first, which she does after a taking a long, dramatic moment of thought. 

"This is Morinth's work. She is attracted to artists and creators. Someone with a spark, slightly isolated from their peers. She impresses with sophistication and sex appeal. Then she strikes. The hunt interests her as much as the conquest."

This sounds more or less in keeping with Samara's earlier descriptions of her psychopathic offspring, although if I'm to be honest, the mindset she's describing isn't one that's entirely foreign to me. Of course, I'm not exactly out to conquer the Collectors, just to keep them from conquering me. But the process of hunting them down _has_ given me something to hold onto, something to keep my mind on. Something to want after everything vanished.

But I don't voice the thought. Samara doesn't need to know I feel any sort of sympathy towards our quarry. Instead I keep to the practicalities. "She kills with sex and I have no plans to sleep with her." A nice, matter-of-fact assertion. Finally a safe enemy. They don't come often in my world.

Samara doesn't seem to agree, though. Her head cocks sideways in a slight sneer. "Perhaps you have a right to be glib, Shepard. But caution is wise here." Her voice lowers, as if she is speaking of some listening evil that may strike at any moment. "Morinth speaks to you on many levels. Her body tells you that she'll bring unimaginable ecstasy. Her scent evokes memories long hidden. Her eyes promise you things you were always scared to ask of another. Her voice whispers to you after she is done speaking."

I want to tell her that I have no long-hidden memories to evoke, no questions I have been holding back on. But of course that's not true, and before I can stop it, I am thinking of Kaidan. His eyes, his voice…the feel of his hand slipping gently into the small of my back during that brief embrace on Horizon. And then the anger...

_"You turned your back on everything we believed in. You betrayed the Alliance. You betrayed me."_

I give Samara a hooded look, wondering suddenly what she knows or guesses about my past, and what it means for the path we are about to walk. Am I making a mistake? Kaiden is a closed book. I know that. I have accepted it. But there is no question I still carry the feelings he left behind, much as I try to ignore them.

And the loneliness…the loneliness is everpresent. I miss having someone to turn to. I miss being able to stop thinking about the mission. I miss being wanted. 

Is it possible an Ardat-Yakshi is not a safe enemy at all? Is it possible I am walking into battle with my only weakness?

I realize the Justicar is staring at me intently, and I hasten to put on a sardonic smile, as impenetrable as the chestplate weighing heavily against my breastbone. "She sounds like my kind of asari," I quip, raising an eyebrow.

Samara's expression of disapproval deepens and she tilts her head to the side with narrowed eyes. "You joke, Shepard. But for all your might, you will be in great danger. Storming her den would be a mistake. she will have a hundred escape routes planned. She will go to ground and disappear for fifty years or more. This is the closest I've ever been."

I have no interest in hearing her rant again about her vendetta, and even less in being given further time to pontificate on whether my inescapable solitude is making me walk into a trap. Time to start dealing in specifics. "You sound like you're working your way toward an idea."

She nods, and I don't think I'm imagining a sudden feral tinge to the curve of her tight red lips, severe like a blood stain against pale blue skin. "Afterlife's VIP section seems her preferred hunting ground. You must go there alone and unarmed."

 _That_ throws me for a loop, and for a moment I'm jarred from any self-pity I might have been sinking into. "I'm walking into this place with no gun and no backup?" _Better talk fast, sister; no one takes my gun._

"I will be in the shadows watching, Shepard. You will never be alone -- this I swear. But you cannot barge in with guns and allies. Morinth is far too cagey. She'd simply disappear. This is a subtle, delicate act. Trust me."

 _Trust her._ I barely know her. There are people I have known for years that I do not trust. I can count the people I trust on one hand -- and I'd have a finger to spare, now that Kaiden may call me enemy. No, I do not trust Samara. But I need her. And in order to use her, I must have her mind clear. And in order to have her mind clear I must do this thing -- I must put myself in harms way and lay my emotions before a woman who can strip them bare of all the shields I have put around them, and then fry my brain.

"She'll come after me," I say flatly.

Samara nods, as if I'd commented on the weather. "You can draw Morinth out. She'll certainly flee if she catches sight of me. But she won't be able to resist you. You are an artist on the battlefield. You have the vital spark that attracts her. Your power will draw her in."

I can't tell if she thinks she is flattering me or not. If she is, it isn't working. I know I'm a good fighter, a good leader, a good strategist, and I know I'll probably never be much else. But I don't like to be buttered up. I don't like flattery. I don't like Samara, when it comes right down to it.

But there's nothing I can do about it. And in such situations I've found it's best to just do things and move on. "Times a-wasting. Let's get over there." 

"I agree," says Samara placidly. "We can talk more once we're there."

* * *

Afterlife's VIP room is hot and loud. So is the rest of Afterlife, but somehow the VIP lounge seems even more so; maybe it is because of the lower light, or just the fact that there's more people in a smaller space. Whatever it is, I'm acutely aware of the lack of my guns. I'm used to having an elbow knocking into my pistol holster every other step, and shifting my weight to compensate for the dual pressures of the Revenant machine gun and sniper rifle across my back, the heavy jolt of the particle cannon on my hip. Without them I feel naked, and I wish Samara had allowed me to keep my armor on. Plenty of the patrons are wearing theirs; shows you what kind of a place Omega is, I guess. But Samara didn't want to take any risk of giving Morinth a heads-up. And I guess I don't blame her; I sure as hell don't want to have to do this a second time.

A disreputable-looking fellow in a cutoff vest approaches me as I enter the room, babbling something about concert tickets for a band called Expel 10. I brush him off, but not before I catch him mentioning an asari he wants to impress. Something about the hysterical tinge in his voice makes it clear this isn't just an idle interest.  _Bingo._

It's been a long time since I've been in a place quite like this. I've been in plenty of bars -- and more than a few clubs -- in my life. Hell, they were practically required study back in the slums where I grew up, poolsharking and pickpocketing my way to glory. Even in my more respectable days I've spent a lot of time in these sorts of places; any Alliance soldier making landfall learns pretty quick to figure out where the nearest supply of something strong, blue, and alcoholic can be purchased. Most of the Normandy crew pretty much had a running tab at Chora's Den on the Citadel back before it got wasted by Sovereign. 

But VIP rooms are something I tend to stay away from. I'm scruffy and scarred and angry-looking and frankly awkward out of armor, and I have a tendency to stand out like a sore thumb. These days, my face's increasingly deteriorating condition just adds to the problem, making me look like a jack o'lantern with an attitude problem. Luckily, for once, sticking out like a sore thumb is something I'm actually expected to do here, so I don't let it bother me but just square my shoulders back and try to look confident. 

I make for the dance floor first, sliding into the crowd and trying to catch the rhythm of whatever song it is they're blaring, my attention everywhere, scanning the jam of people around me. Plenty of asari; which one of them is Morinth? It occurs to me that I haven't really gotten a visual description from Samara. I'm expected to just know her when I see her. I suppose this indicates a nice amount of respect for my powers of observation, but I would have settled for a photo to check people against. The fact is, being told to look for a stunningly pretty asari just really isn't narrowing the field much. It's enough to make a woman feel quite inadequate, if she didn't have the fate of the galaxy to worry about.

A turian next to me is putting the moves, with a painful lack of respect or subtlety, on a stripper at my elbow who looks like she wants to crawl under the floorboards to get away from him. I casually cold-clock him into an unconscious heap and move on.

Emerging from the undulating crowd at the far end of the room, I notice the bar, and make for it immediately like it's an oasis in the desert. Bars I can do. Bars are easy. They're stable; you just have to drink and try not to fall over. There's a space near the end and I slide casually into a seat, resting my elbows against the cool metal.

Any feeling of security, however, is quickly dispelled by a rush of hot breath on my left ear and a low rumbly growl. "I guess they'll let anybody in here now. No standards anymore." 

 _God damn the whole krogan race._ I honestly don't know what got him so offended; maybe it's my uniform, which I'd be the first to agree does nothing for the figure, or maybe it's the deep scars that seem to glow under my cheekbones. Maybe he's just an ass. Whatever it is, I don't have the patience for it; I know I'm out of place, but I'm busy trying to find a woman who can literally sear my brain out of my skull, and I'm damned if that fine plan for the evening is going to be ruined by a krogan lecturing me on social sophistication. All the tension I've been starting to feel about this whole business riles up to a head and I find I'm standing up again, shoving my face into his ugly mug for all the world as if I was going to walk right over him.

"Can you back that up?" I snap. "We go out to the alley, only one of us comes back in." My hand drifts towards my hip, then clenches into a fist as I remember there's no pistol there.  _Whoops._

He rounds on me with a low grunt, sizing me up and down, his reptilian jaw twitching sharply. I immediately start regretting my momentary loss of temper, and I have a sudden mental image of Samara, watching from the shadows with dismay as I get smacked into the carpeting by the four-hundred-pound living tank that I've just threatened to punch. A slightly hysterical laugh rises up in my chest.

Something of that laugh must show in my eyes too and make me seem indomitable as I clamp my jaw hard, because -- amazingly -- the Krogan doesn't follow through, just grumbles back on his heels and snaps, "I'm just trying to have a drink here. No need to get all excited. Damn humans." He turns and stalks off -- leaving his drink unpaid for, as the bartender is happy to inform me. I give him my Spectre credit line info. I don't know if Udina is tracking my purchases the way the council used to; if he is, I wonder what he'll make of this expenditure.

Best to keep moving. I sidle away from the bar, which is suddenly feeling no more welcoming than the dance floor, and slide back into my own thoughts again, wondering not for the first time what I'm getting myself into. I've been avoiding thinking too directly about the capacities of the Ardat-Yakshi as described by Samara -- partially because it's not really conducive to my focus and partially because, if I'm to be honest, the idea unnerves me. When it comes right down to it, I'm not sure I trust my own emotional resistance and control right now. For one thing, I just almost picked a fight with a Krogan. But it's more than that… I remember Jacob's brief flirtation after Horizon, how easy it had felt like it might be to take him up on it, just to be doing something. To be with someone. To not be alone.

_Even if it kills me?_

It's odd I'm having these sorts of thoughts. I don't generally second-guess my own decisions and plans, even the hardest ones. This is different, though, I suppose. This is a plan, and a potential decision, unlike any I've had since -- well, since Kaiden, I suppose. And even with Kaiden there was no danger of pain and destruction if I gave in to my own desires…

"My name is Morinth..."

The voice is so low and smooth that I almost miss it, with my ears at least. But there is an element to it that is not sound, but something that just goes straight to the brainstem, and it stops me dead in my tracks. A beautiful, deep blue asari has emerged out of the shadows to stand at my side, leaning against the bulkhead. Her eyes are fixed on me with an expression that can only be termed hunger. It's unnerving and I feel a sudden unexpected thrill shiver up my spine as I turn to face her. Yes, this is Morinth all right. She's got Samara's eyes, and the same fire in them. Both women burn cold.

But Morinth is different from Samara, too. There is nothing of the driven ascetic in the woman before me; she is an unabashed hedonist and it is obvious just from the way she carries herself. Such confidence is a little mesmerizing.

"I've been watching you," she continues, sliding off the wall like a humanoid oil slick, lithe and and sultry and dark. "You're the most interesting person in this place."

 _Interesting._ I almost laugh. I've been called a lot of things in my life. Interesting hasn't always been among them -- and when it has, it's rarely been a compliment. It clearly is to Morinth though. The highest compliment, in fact. It's obvious this woman lives to fly ahead of the taste of boredom. 

"I've got a booth over here in the shadows," she whispers. "Why don't you come sit with me?"

I find myself nodding and follow her without a second thought.

* * *

The conversation is short but intense. I name-drop a few artists I remember from Nef's journals, ask about the band the man at the door was feverish for, mention the drug whose smell hangs in the air between us. It's surprisingly simple; I'm a little disquieted by the ease with which I slip into this guise of the worldly sensualist. I don't enjoy this subtle approach much. I prefer a straight shot conversation -- or a straight shot with a gun. But I'm managing, and perhaps a little too well, because I can see the hunger growing in her eyes, and as it does, my own fascination with her grows in spite of myself.

Because she is fascinating. She has an energy about her, a banked-fires glow. I don't know if it's some sort of pheromone or just the lure of the exotic, but whatever it is, she's selling it hard. She sits in a way that suggests she knows how to use her body -- visually, emotionally, physically -- and she forces the viewer to think about what it would be like to feel her make use of that knowledge. And her eyes have not left me since she sat down. I can't help but think maybe I've fascinated her too. There aren't too many people like me on Omega.

And I can't help the sudden thought that it is…intriguing to have someone so attentive to my movements. It's been a long time...

I have to stay focused. This isn't a conversation I'm meant to enjoy. I don't  _want_ to enjoy it. And yet the desire to get lost in the experience is becoming stronger with each passing moment. I find myself saying things not because they will further Samara's plan but because they will draw out that singular nod of the head that she can do when she's heard something she likes, that gentle shift of hip and flash of tongue and teeth in a smirk.  _She is manipulating you,_ I think, some small part of my mind baffled by the effect her interest has on me. 

Suddenly she leans forward and her hand brushes my knee. I realize with an electric shock that it is the first time anyone has touched me outside of a medical examination in all the time since Cerberus brought me back to life. Her fingers are hot through my trouser leg and seem to glow blue in the dim light. I feel attentive in a way I have never imagined feeling towards a woman. Towards anyone, really. _Anyone but Kaiden…_

"Do you want to get out of here?" she breathes. "My apartment is nearby, and I want you alone…"

I nod dumbly. 

* * *

 

The walk to her apartment is quick and quiet. I'm walking through the door before I realize I never checked to be sure Samara was following us.

It's a nice apartment, especially for Omega. The floor and walls are clean, the decor is modern and there is a smell of something sharp, like incense or cleaning fluid. There's a beautiful assault rifle hanging on the wall; all my usual instincts cry out to take a closer look but I just stop in the middle of the room, waiting to see what will happen next. I can feel her eyes on me as she steps through the door behind me. She is watching me with that smile, still hungry, still…predatory. And still fascinating. I bite the inside of my cheek, too hard as it turns out. The taste of blood covers my tongue. 

She sits down on the couch and gestures me over. I hesitate as long as I can before following, buying time before moving any further into her sway; by the time I reach the seat, I half-fall into it as if my feet were kicked out from under me.

"I love clubs," Morinth says, her voice low and slow and drawling, her eyes half-closed, not looking at me. "People, movement, heat. I can still hear the beat, like the drums of a great hunt out for your blood." Her eyes open fully, and she looks towards me -- and her eyes catch mine and suddenly I can't look away. _How is she doing this?_ "But here," she goes on, "it's muted. And you're safe. Is that what you want, Shepard?"

 _Such an odd question. Of course it's not what I want._ "I'd rather fight than hide," I say slowly, like I have to think over each word before it slips out. I feel weirdly disconnected; somewhere between the lounge and this moment, I lost my grip on the situation. It occurs to me to wonder what's taking Samara so long, and then the thought drifts away on the incense-laden air.

"Yes," she murmurs. "Better to take control of your fate." She stirs from her seat, flowing like a liquid into the spot beside me, her eyes never leaving mine, her voice never stopping its soft, seductive drone. "I've never understood the fascination with safety. Some of us choose differently. Independence over submission. I think we share that, you and I…"

 _Do we? Yes, of course we do..._ It makes so much sense, what she's saying…like she's seeing right into my mind. Independence...I've spent my whole career doing the dangerous things, because no one else will. I have to. It's who I am. "You compare us, but you're nowhere near my league," I hear myself saying flirtatiously, straightening up against her.

"So strong…" she whispers, the words like a white hot laser etching themselves into me. "I need this."

Her arm slides around my shoulders. I barely feel it though her skin burns against me. My heart is thumping in my ears. She speaks again. Is she really speaking or am I hearing her inside me? "Look into my eyes and tell me you want me. Tell me you'd kill for me. Anything I want…"

I look into those eyes, bewildered, overwhelmed. I'm having trouble remembering quite where I am; for a moment I'm sure the black of her gaze is brown and warm and suddenly Kaiden's face swims before me in a flash so real that a longing bubbles up in me that almost makes me cry out. _Give in…_ says a voice inside of me -- and the voice is like Kaiden too, and also like me, and mixed with an asari cadence that is impossible to resist. _Give in. This is your destiny...to experience all dangers, all trials…all pleasures, all at once. Admit it…you crave it. You want it. You_ need it... _another's body touching yours, against you, inside you, diving with you into the unknown_.

My breath rasps in my chest, and I feel suddenly as lonely as I have ever felt in all these months of fighting on alone. _Yes…_ I cry wordlessly. _Yes…I want it…_

 _Then take it…_ It sounds like Kaiden, yes...it sounds like him but it is wrong. It is hard and hungry and devouring, like Kaiden never was…Kaiden, too gentle for his own good, too gentle for our lives in the marines. _Take me, and let me take you._

The sudden surge of desire is overwhelming. _Yes..._ I think, like a broken whispered murmur, pleading silently.  _Yes. Take me...hold me...protect me...don't let me be alone anymore._

The inner voice goes sharp with laughter; Kaiden's face seems to blur and the black eyes seep through, amused. _Protect you? This is not about protection. This is about ecstasy!_

A sudden dissonant note sounds in the music we were spinning together. I jerk my head to the side, as if trying to wake myself from a dream turned suddenly dark.  _I never asked for ecstasy...just a comfort in the dark..._

My vision is clearing. Kaiden is vanishing like mist before the emerging face of the Ardat-Yakshi, framed in a blue biotic glow and trembling with anticipation. Her voice noiselessly resonates at the very base of my skull.  _Embrace eternity!_

_No!_

With the one-word thought, I feel myself break upwards as if out of some deepening pool, and take a sharp breath in. Morinth's face becomes abruptly clear before me, exultantly expectant, but the desire has drained out of me with the sudden realization. She has pegged me wrong. She thinks I want her brand of flame in my bed, something to engulf me and burn me up as a last fiery adventure. I want nothing of the sort. Cold, hard woman that I am in so many ways, I still know how to love. I have done it. And this is not it.

"I'm not the victim you were hoping for," I rasp triumphantly, drawing my head back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the first chapter I wrote for this fic, before deciding to do the writing more in chronological order along witha walkthrough; I'm leaving it up here as a teaser for Shepard's mental state by the time we get this far along, because I think it is interesting.
> 
> I always have a small running narrative going in my mind when I play the game, since it adds to the experience and helps each playthrough feel unique. This particular Shepard was always intended to go for a romance in ME2 as a rebound from Kaiden, but the exact timing of that romance beginning (and the events, depicted here, that immediately preceded it) seemed very interesting the more I thought about them in the context of the larger arc.
> 
> Samara's missions never interested me that much in and of themselves, but it occurred to me (because of the mission ordering and history of this particular playthrough) that they became riveting when viewed through the lens of forcing Shepard to come to terms with the fleeting intimacies that she has had to sacrifice in becoming the savior of humanity.


End file.
